


The Language of Flowers

by Shadowbox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Bathing/Washing, Blood, Dacrophilia, Dom/sub Undertones, Fear Play, Gore, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26603413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowbox/pseuds/Shadowbox
Summary: Knowing little more about Fenris' mysterious 'organization' than that it operates almost like a mafia and is focused on dismantling the Tevinter slave trade, Carver Hawke is sent in his brother's place to be liaison between Fenris and their own group of powerful and well-placed allies.  Of course, Garrett didn't inform Fenris of the change in advance, and Fenris is not pleased about this...
Relationships: Fenris/Carver Hawke
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	1. Iris - I have a message for you

_Alright,_ Carver thought, trying to stave off another burst of nerves. _This is it. White iris on the table. White iris. This is an important thing you're doing, and you're doing it without Garrett, without anybody, peering over your shoulder_. It was difficult to quite reconcile how good that felt, like breathing in deeply after submerging under water. Fresh and exhilarating. But it was also important, pins and needles important. _They're counting on you, fucker. Come on._

  
Although he could hear the rush of air in the dim-lit bar, from some fan carefully hidden among the antique wood paneling and moired mirrors, the air felt dismally warm and heavy. It was haunted by traces of cigarette smoke and womens' perfume, and the brighter, newer aromas of fresh cut citrus, gin and red wine. Carver was glad he had chosen to forego the tie tonight because his collar and cuffs already felt too tight.

From the restaurant side, partitioned from the dim, mirror-glittering bar by thickets of vintage stained glass, he caught the whiff of butter, garlic, wine and seafood, which would have set his stomach grumbling on a better evening and now this evening made it churn.

  
It was early yet and the bar was sparsely populated. Several couples sat together in secluded tables, and the barstools were scattered with patrons, most in business casual, most nursing drinks and fixated upon cell phones.

  
Carver scanned the room for white irises. He didn't know if he was supposed to be looking for a decal on a purse, or a bouttoniere, but then his gaze stopped instantly on a dark green bouquet sheath. Just the flowers, lying on their side like a jilted gift, on one of the corner tables. His mouth went dry and his gaze flicked up, taking in the figure already seated there. His first impression was of a shock of soft-looking white hair, elegant fingertips lifting a glass of red wine.

Something light flashed, like jewelry, on his hand and beneath his lips, but as Carver drew closer, he saw that the pale gleam was a marking, like white tattoos or... Or scarification.

  
Carver approached, trying to keep his steps as light and casual as if this were a meeting for something innocuous, but he couldn't help but to keep eyeing those scars. The elf's dark olive skin was enough of a contrast that there was no way to avoid the way the keloids gleamed in the faint reflection of the bar's fairy lights, of the stained glass chandeliers, even the reflections on the mirrors that cast a pool of ruby blood from the elf's wine glass on to the sleek black table top. And they were such a contrast to the immaculate gleam of manicured fingernails, the silver glint of the watch, the narrow-lapeled black suit, even the faintest hint of gloss that lingered on the elf's lips and made Carver notice, despite himself, just exactly how fine and beautiful the features were beneath that white hair.

  
He sat down. He tried to do it gracefully, but his tension made him slam his rather bulky body down into the chair, making it creak. He winced. He should have gotten himself a drink first. The elf's emerald green eyes flicked up to him, flicked down across his body, coolly dismissive, and then the elf said:

  
"No."

  
_No? What the hell did-?_ Carver shook his head and took a breath. "I'm Carver Hawke-"

  
"No," the elf repeated, in a deep, harsh voice that was dark with both disdain and command. "Tell your brother that if he can't show me respect, he can drown in his blood like all the others."

  
He stood up, before Carver had the opportunity to respond _(to drown in his blood, are you serious-?),_ leaving the irises where they were. He drained the last of his wine in one smooth toss of his head. Carver watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, half-frozen in place because he wasn't sure if he was angrier at Garrett for fucking this up or this stranger for threatening Garrett and disregarding him so completely.

  
That strange hesitation left him when the elf slammed his wine glass down hard enough to send the base of it skittering across the table in shards and sharp dust and stalked out toward the door. Every eye on the place was on them, now, and Carver felt heat spread from his cheeks all the way down his neck. He cursed under his breath, pulled a ten dollar bill from his wallet for the glass, and then picked up the bouquet and strode after. At least, he thought, the place was common for dates and it was early enough in the evening, they could have been jet-lagged exes having a fight.

  
That was what he was thinking when he growled, "Wait-" and grabbed the elf's upper arm, spinning him around. After all, they had already caused a scene, and Carver wasn't going to let this touchy fucker abandon the entire job just because once again, someone had summarily decided that he was the less desirable Hawke.

  
This line of thought and every emotion that was a part of it, from the stern set of Carver's broad shoulders, to the fury racing through his veins, to the rough frustration deepening his voice, died instantly when he caught eye contact with the man he had just spun to face him. Carver had been in enough fights to expect some flash of fear or aggression, but he received something else entirely.

Those green eyes went ice cold and flat and Carver was absolutely certain that if he had dared to manhandle this elf anywhere less public, he wouldn't have survived it This beautiful man with his perfect suit, high-end taste in wine, and elegant fingernails would have killed him for laying hands on him, and wouldn't have lost a night of sleep over it.

  
That look, frozen and bloodthirsty and beyond hostile, shivered down Carver's spine. He felt a jolt along his cock, and his cheeks might well have been molten as he released his grip, opened both his palms, though he kept them low as if to de-escalate the situation or perhaps to prevent anyone else from interfering. He was exceptionally happy for the long jacket hiding the half-erection and equally confused as to why he was aroused. The elf was gorgeous, that was certain, but the rest... 

  
"I- that is- I'm sorry, but can't we- isn't it important and-?" God, he hated himself when he stammered like this. He wasn't good with words like Garrett, not good with people, but stringing together a sentence ought to be easy enough. Usually, he didn't care how blunt he was or who he offended.

Now, though, faced with someone who seemed to be offended by his very presence, he didn't quite know what to do to defuse things.

  
The floor was parquet, and he could see a few new scuffs on its glistening surface, just next to the rug that spread out red and opulent from the front door. Carver's shoes could have used a better shine. Parts of them looked nice and parts worn. He frowned and looked back up, and maybe somehow how much he really cared about this, how real it was to him, bled into his expression, and the elf's gaze thawed by a few degrees. A few nearly imperceptible degrees.

"Outside," he growled, and slipped a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his suit. The cigarette case had some sort of inscription on it, but it was old, worn and impossible to read in the moment that the elf snapped it open, pulled out a slender black cigarette, and closed it again.

Outside, the sky was a dark pewter color from overcast and encroaching dusk. It was drizzling. The elf led him to the side of the building, beside what he supposed was the kitchen delivery door. The alley was wide enough for large vehicles to pass through with room for loading and unloading, and smelled relatively garbage-free, though it was musty with the smell of rain on wet concrete.

Soon enough those faint smells were overcome by the harshly sweet scent of flavored tobacco, as a gleam of fire pressed against the end of the elf's cigarette. It wasn't a flavor that Carver recognized, not just cloves, something exotic that reminded him of roses and anise.

  
_Probably Tevinter,_ he thought, and then felt a moment of confusion because Garrett had assured him this person despised Tevinter. Which really made sense given the organization he represented. You'd have to hate Magisters with an unholy passion to fuck with their operations quite so extensely and violently. _So why smoke Tevinter cigarettes, then?_

  
Carver opened his mouth to ask, but the elf was already speaking, his soft gravelly voice raw on an exhale of smoke.

  
"The arrangement I had with your brother was important, yes."

  
"Had?" Carver parrotted, feeling slightly ill.

"Look, I promise you I can be your liaison just as well as Garrett can. We have the same connections. And you'll still have access to the rest of Garrett's team when you need them. _If you need them._ "

  
"And Hawke sent you in his place because..? He is in hospital? Some terrible emergency came up and he could not inform me of the change in plans?"

  
Carver frowned. "He said he thought you'd prefer dealing with me, because I'm not a mage."

  
The elf chuckled, low and dark, but there was no humor in the sound. His head tipped forward, white hair spilled over his face, his cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. "So his power play, altering our alliance without my knowledge or approval, has a petty jab about my prejudices wrapped 'round it like a present."

  
Carver paused, thought that through, then leaned back, knocking the back of his head lightly against the alley wall. "Fuck," he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. The gesture seemed to be intrinsically linked to the expletives that dropped from his mouth, he said them together so often. " _Fuck_ , Garrett."

  
"And he sent you to me like a sacrificial lamb," the elf continued moodily.

  
"Er." Carver left his hand in place, massaging the place just between his eyes where the headache was about to start. "I figure he thought I'd be safe enough. Maybe he knew you'd be pissed off, but not at me. My money's on he thought you'd just take what he decided to give. Most people do."

  
"I don't."

  
The silence stretched out between them. It wasn't a comfortable, companionable silence, or Carver would have felt compelled to fill it up with something. He wasn't very good at keeping his curiosity under wraps. But it also wasn't a wholly uncomfortable, prickly silence. It felt poised instead, pregnant, even though the elf had already made his decision about the Hawkes.

  
Carver tentatively lowered his hand from his face and glanced shyly in the man's direction. His breath caught in his throat. The elf's lips were parted on a plume of smoke. Tiny droplets of rain glittered on his dark skin and laid like little diamonds in his white hair, which was starting to dampen into waves. The scars on his chin and throat almost seemed to glow in the mingled shadow and light of the stairs and the big industrial bulb that had just turned on above them.

  
"Garrett was a fucking arse," he said, roughly. He almost regretted saying it when the reverie that transformed the elf into such a work of fatal art snapped, and green eyes rose up to search his face. Because this person's undivided attention did nothing to stop the twist of something in his guts, the clench of something around his lungs. He kept talking to try to fight it off. He pressed off from the wall and began pacing, three quick steps down into the dips for the lorries, then three steps back. "He thinks he knows what's best for everyone. But... Look, I'm here. And I really do think the work you're doing is important. And I'll follow your lead. I won't fuck around and try to prove I know better than you. So do you think you could see it in yourself to give me a chance?"

  
He didn't want to know what his eyes looked like when they slid up off the concrete. Probably like the house Mabari right before walkies.

  
In return, jade green eyes trailed over him, up and down, before settling on his face. After a moment, the elf dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his heel with a brutal twist. He extended his hand. "My name is Fenris," he said. 

  
Carver stepped in and grasped his hand, which while delicately boned had a deceptively powerful grip. He thought his own hand was going to smell like roses and anise now, and was unsure why that thought spread a frisson of arousal.

  
"Alright, Fenris," he said, and didn't have to fake the smile. "Why the iris?"

  
"It's ancient Tevene. The language of flowers. Nobody uses it at all anymore, or remembers it, except those who have very good reason not to converse in a public language. People carrying on very discreet affairs, sometimes. But mostly slaves."

  
Carver's gaze flicked to Fenris' scars again. As he'd thought, the keloids weren't a form of tattoo or vallaslin. _Had Fenris been a slave?_

  
That was the question he wanted to ask, but instead, he heard himself say, "Alright, but what does it mean, the iris?"

  
"I have a message for you," Fenris said absently. Then, "Come, walk with me," It was almost, but not quite a command.

  
Carver nodded, and together they moved past the little bar and its parking lot. Carver nodded to where his truck was parked, but Fenris shook his head and kept them walking. They continued along three blocks of restaurants and shops, down a narrow alley, and through a park where, wet as it was, the cut grass laying atop the lawn made Carver sneeze. Then there were little clicking noises coming from somewhere. It sounded like code, but as Carver struggled to listen, he realized the letters didn't make sense to him.

  
And then he realized they just didn't make sense to _him_. 

Fenris tore his cell phone out of his pocket, stared at it, and Carver watched fury bleed into his eyes and pale his fine features.

_"Kaffas!"_ Fenris snarled, then grabbed Carver roughly by the upper arm, fingers digging bruises. "Walk faster!"

"We should have- fucking- taken my truck," Carver gasped. Their destination wasn't bad for a leisurely evening stroll, but it was a bit far for a flat-out sprint, which is what they'd ended up doing. Fenris gave him a cold, flat stare and then bent to retrieve a small snub-nosed pistol from his ankle.

  
"Are you armed?" he asked Carver.

  
"Nope. Public place, you know. Show of trust."

  
"Trust is a luxury. And now we are severely under-armed." Fenris handed Carver the pistol as he said so.

  
Carver checked the weapon, and then held it low at his side, ready. He hadn't used a gun in a while, but there were things that you never forgot, things that turned into instinct and muscle memory in the field. He cast Fenris a quick, worried glance. "What about you? Did you have another one?"

  
Fenris sighed, shook his head, and slipped off his jacket, rolling his shoulders. "No," he said simply. "But I don't really need one."

And then he opened the door.

  
That was just so much fucking bullshit and reminded Carver far too strongly of growing up in a house full of mages. _Didn't need one?_ Fenris was tall and muscular for an elf, but he was still about half Carver's mass, and if anyone should have been going into an unknown and presumably dangerous situation unarmed, it should be Carver. At that moment, he so wholly resented that he'd promised he wouldn't question Fenris' authority. His authority damn well _needed_ to be questioned!

  
With a lifetime's memory of anger-sour stomachs simmering inside him, Carver followed the elf into a dimly lit parking garage. Age-yellowed bulbs throbbed on the high concrete ceiling, and twists and shadows perfect for ambush or for hidden assailants were everywhere. There were no cars in site except for a dark brown Ford Bronco so covered in dirt and dust Carver doubted it had been moved in years, and a large panel truck sporting some very ugly, very explicit anti-elf graffiti. The panel truck had its side doors open, and the smell of blood was strong.

  
About three feet away from the van, a young elven woman lay in a pool of blood. Carver lifted the pistol, checking every angle as he and Fenris rushed forward toward her. Carver had been certain she was dead, but as they drew closer, he could hear her harsh, wet breaths growing fainter and fainter.

  
Fenris knelt beside her, heedless of the blood, and cradled her head gently. "Amara," he said softly, brushing the hair back from her pointed ear. It was the kindest Carver had ever heard him sound and it made a strange sensation travel along his spine, almost like terror but not quite. He quickly set back to guarding their position.

  
"They... knew..." At first, it was hard for Carver to recognize that she was speaking. Every word was so labored, forced out through agony, torn through gritted teeth, that it sounded almost animal. He wanted to beg her to be quiet, to save her strength, but with Fenris focused entirely on his friend, Carver knew he needed to stay alert, gun focused, watching every shadow for movement and listening for untoward sounds.

  
"...Everything... " She sighed out. Carver felt a hot sour rush of saliva in his mouth and told himself harshly, firmly, you will not, you will not, even as his gun hand snapped toward a distant sound- an alarm.

  
"... Sold... Out..."

  
Fenris's hand stroked over her hair again, but this time it was trembling. Carver did not think it was trembling from fear, or from the nausea that still gripped him.

  
"They won't live to sell anything," Fenris promised. He stood up, and Carver saw sticky patches shimmer on his trousers from all the blood. Carver handed him the pistol, wordlessly, and pulled off his jacket, gently placing it under Amara's head. He hoped she would live until they got back, but he could tell by the way she breathed and the way her eyes moved that they needed to get an ambulance quickly and he also knew that with whatever fuckheads were further on in the garage, they didn't have that option yet.

  
He would have liked to stay with her, to hold her wound as stable as he could, but Fenris was already stalking forward, alone and, after smacking Carver in the chest with the gun to make him take it back, unarmed. He would have liked to tell Fenris to stay with her, but he had an idea how well that would go down.

He could practically see the anger rising off the elf like trails of his rose scented smoke.  
Instead he focused on the air around him: cold, but somehow thick. He could still smell that ozone aroma of gunpowder, and the electric copper tang of blood. One of the overhead lights further on flickered, buzzing like a thousand angry flies, and Carver rose to higher alert, sure that wherever the enemies were, they were close.

  
But no one emerged from the eerie shadows. Nobody was waiting in some inky, graffito-ed corner. They descended the first level as quietly as they could, silently seething, shoes the barest scuff, nearly quieter than the noise of the lights and of some distant engine.

Carver couldn't understand how they had gotten so far without interference, until, with a sudden burst of clarity, it occurred to him that they were _early._ Fenris had expected the meeting with Hawke to last for a decent while, probably negotiating the parameters of their agreement, sharing information with him that had fallen completely off the table during his disastrous introduction to Carver. That meant the mole, whoever had sold out Fenris' operation, didn't expect Fenris back yet.

  
It was still stupid of them, whoever they were, not to have set guards. It spoke of either overconfidence or desperation. Either they were so certain of their spy's input that they were focused on another objective now, or they had suffered enough casualties during their assault that they didn't have the manpower to watch the entire garage. There had been, Carver conceded, quite a bit too much blood back there just for poor Amara.

  
Very softly, he whispered to Fenris, "What can you hear?" He himself couldn't detect much of anything, other than a disturbing absence of nearby violence, but elves had better hearing than humans.

  
His heart leapt into his throat when Fenris hissed back, "Interrogation."

  
"Torture?" he mouthed, and Fenris nodded. His eyes were almost glowing with rage.

  
"Pricks really thought they could do this at their leisure," Carver muttered, a matching fury rising in his own chest.

  
Fenris snorted, patted Carver's chest, and lifted three fingers. He beckoned, and Carver continued, keeping himself on alert, though the tension in his body was rising and rising from the strange situation and his lack of understanding of it. They continued down the slope of the garage, past the hulks of vans that left Carver continually certain gunmen would emerge around their bulky partitions, or sweep out from inside, spreading a hail of bullets that would leave an action movie audience breathless. Then he began to be able to detect what Fenris had been hearing. The sound of violence, but not of people fighting. Of people being beaten on. Loud, sharp sounds. Sobbing.

Muffled wailing.

  
_Fucking pricks_.

  
Without thinking, he started to run. He heard Fenris curse, then the elf was at his side. Carver hit the door to the small warehouse hard, and then again, harder, so that the bruising impact drew a harsh unwilling cry out of him, but the door opened, and he staggered through, his gun raised as he trained it over a scene out of some sort of hell.

  
Two people were strapped to gurneys that did not exactly look like they were intended for that purpose, and both were bleeding heavily. One was silent and still, the other actively fighting. Along the walls, men and women knelt submissively or were tossed there like broken dolls, their limbs and faces twisted and bruised. There were two guards and two mages, which shouldn't have been enough, but...

  
Carver was slow, with the force of his arrival still stinging down the bones of his shoulder and arm, and one of the guards: tall, dark and handsome, disgustingly like someone on the cover of a novel his mother would fancy, lifted his own gun and--

  
Carver was going to get shot--

  
And then the man wasn't tall, dark or handsome. He was just meat and arterial spray, and Fenris was standing right there, _how the hell had he gotten there so fast?_

__

__

_And what had he, how had he-?_ Carver gawped, then remembered what they were there for as chanting rose in his ears. The next thing that rose there was a metal pipe, cracked along the side of his head and ripping his ear open. Hot wet trailed down Carver's neck and he fought off the pain and dizziness, refusing to lose hold of his gun and instead shooting roughly through the assailant's chest. Further on in the room, past the people that Carver couldn't afford to look at yet, the two mages were still at their work.

  
As the guard went down from the awkward bullet, still alive but unlikely to swing a pipe again, Carver raised his weapon to the mages. Pale blue lightning danced from the fingers of the woman, making his body seize and his lungs choke on a scream as his finger clenched repeatedly on the trigger, useless bullets smashing and ricocheting off the concrete and metal walls. Beside her, the other mage- _sadistic fucking prick_ \- kept doing what he was doing to an adolescent elf strapped to a gurney.

  
Then there was a gunshot. A door had opened behind them, and the female elf glanced back, then kept up her electrical assault. But the man behind her shot her right through the heart, and she fell, gurgling, fingers spraying spurts of lightning, till Carver was released, gasping.

  
He struggled to raise his gun.

  
Fenris was standing behind the last mage, and his hand was inside the mage's chest. The knife had dropped from the mage's hand, useless, and he was now frozen in terror, babbling promises and threats that made no sense. Carver flicked his gaze from the second gunman to Fenris, and then darted across the room to the boy on the gurney. He ripped his shirt off and wrapped it around the vicious bleeding wounds on the boy's arm, holding down as hard as he could.  
_Fucking blood mages._

  
He was too focused on the feel of the hot, wet fabric under his hands, the boy's pulse, the helpless keening noises he kept making. He didn't see what Fenris did to the mage, but the grotesque gurgling noise told him he should probably be glad of that. Around the room, crying, wailing and panting was dying down to a gentle background noise, not the roar it had been.

  
"Fuck," said an unfamiliar voice. "Fuck. I'll call... I'll call someone for a healer."

  
Carver glanced at the man who had entered from the back. He was young, with reddish brown hair and a light beard. His voice trembled but his hands... His hands didn't.

  
"No," said Fenris, and his voice barely sounded any different from a lupine growl.

  
_"No?!_ " the man gasped. "No, come on, Fenris, look at them! They need-"

  
Fenris stalked over to him and slapped the gun out of his hands. Risky, as it could have gone off, but Carver suspected from the man's pallor and the way his lip was quavering that he hadn't missed whatever Fenris did to the blood mage.

  
"What did they offer you, Remzy?" Fenris asked. "Money? Slaves of your own? Or were you always theirs?"

  
"Fenris, I have no idea what you're talking about. I- I fought for us, like al-"

  
"Yes, and I saw how she looked at you before you shot her in the back. She was relieved."  
"I was- I was pretending- To l-"

  
Lull them, probably was what Remzy meant to say. But Fenris' fingers phased into his neck, took hold of his voicebox, and there was a spray of red across the elf's face and something wet slapped against a nearby gurney just before the human fell to his knees.

  
"Tired of listening to him lie," Fenris growled as something like an explanation, then he dug out his phone and dialed, clearly smearing crimson on his screen and clearly beyond caring.


	2. White chrysanthemum - Truth needs no protestations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Carver clean up after the debacle.

Carver wasn't sure how long it took for emergency services to arrive. He had started to feel a low grade nausea as it churned beneath his breastbone, and his head and shoulder throbbed with occasional piercing jolts. Seconds and minutes bled into each other, but he was focused on nothing other than the wet, sticky fabric he held so tightly in his hands, on nothing except the hammering pulse of the boy on the gurney, the beats which at first he had tried to count and then had simply experienced, soft tremors underneath his vice grip.

After making the initial call, Fenris checked the status of most of the individuals in the room, though he didn't make small talk with any of them. He spoke names that Carver didn't quite catch, examined pupils and gave clipped orders, and once Carver thought he saw Fenris unlock a set of handcuffs from a battered redhaired woman and then put it on someone else. Once, the elf slipped into Carver's view, watching the boy on the gurney and then Carver's glassy stare, before disappearing again.

Eventually, three people bustled into the room. Carver could immediately tell that they were not official EMTs. One of them wore a pair of battered scrubs covered in multi-colored teddy bear print, another wore simple black with a face covering, and the third a tattered grey-green hoodie that Carver hoped was hygienic. They moved efficiently, like a well-oiled machine. The one in black paused to speak to Fenris for what could not have been more than mere seconds, and then they fanned out, arranging the dead along one wall and preparing the worst of the injured for transport.

The one in the bright scrubs gently pried Carver's fingers away from the elven youth's arm and he stumbled back a few paces, staring at his hands, which were entirely stained in bright crimson that made them look huge and alien. He swayed on his feet, adrenaline and willpower bled out of him in one sudden hot rush, and his knees buckled. He thrust out one arm instinctively to stop himself from falling, and slid, palm scraping over corrugated metal.

One of the medics was in front of him then, asking questions that seemed muted, rattled off from the depths of a dark tunnel, as they shone something in Carver's eyes. He waved them away. He was fine. He just needed a moment to breathe. The others needed them. There were so many of them, and so few medics. _And..._ "Amara..." he said. "Help Amara..."

"Amara is already on her way to our private clinic," a deep voice said near his ear, and Carver felt strong fingers grip his shoulder- _his very bruised shoulder_ \- and resisted the urge to whimper. Fenris' hand stroked down his bicep to take a firm grip just above Carver's elbow. "You can move on, Allan. I'll tend to this one."

Carver let himself be tugged past the far door, into a concrete stairwell that was blinding with light, and down a short flight of stairs to a small restroom. It was a single stall, and smelled like industrial chemicals and old mildew. Fenris pushed the lid of the toilet down and shoved Carver almost gently on to it. He had a small medical kit in his hands and opened it on the edge of the ancient metal sink. First, he washed his hands, soaping them again and again until the hot water stopped dripping pink into the basin, then dried them on paper towels and pulled on a pair of gloves. _Light green wasn't a good color for his skin,_ Carver noted absently, as the latex covered Fenris' elegant hands.

Fenris slipped in front of him. With Carver seated on the toilet, they were nearly the same height, with the elf slightly taller, but the closeness of their faces somehow made the moment feel particularly intimate, especially as Fenris cupped Carver's chin with one hand while the fingers of the other probed delicately at the wound on Carver's head. Even though the touch was gentle, every stroke and press felt like broken glass was being pushed into Carver's skull. He hissed in an attempt to avoid showing weakness, and blinked at the burn of tears in his eyes.

The probing stopped, but Fenris made a clucking noise, and tilted his head, reaching into the kit for a small flashlight. Carver thought one of the emergency staff had already checked his pupils, and meant to say so, but the flashlight was gone quickly, and in its place was a cool, wet cloth. With this, Fenris started to clean the blood away from Carver's face.

On unbroken and even bruised skin, the gentle pressure of the cool cloth felt good, and Carver let his head drift forward, lax against the somehow commanding grip of Fenris' other hand. His breathing quickened every time the cloth had to press too hard to work away dirt and dried blood, and when it worked against the abraded wound on his ear and the back of his skull.

"I won't be able to clean out all of this," Fenris murmured. "Your hair is matted with it, and if I pull, I might reopen the scab on your scalp. Your ear... is going to require stitches. Even with them, it might remain notched."

"Leave it," Carver muttered. He wasn't a vain man, and he could grow his hair out again if it truly looked horrendous.

Fenris tsked again. "Carver Hawke, it may not be possible to bleed out from your ear, but it would not be wise to test the theory." He paused, rinsing and wringing out the soft cloth. "On you."

The bleak tone of the last two words should not have been funny, but Carver felt laughter bubble up in him anyway, emerging as a bark of amusement. Fenris got disinfectant on a swab, gave Carver a brusque and cursory warning, and then cleaned his scab and his ear with dabs of the antiseptic swab which hurt so much that Carver swore and reflexively tried to jerk away. But the elf was _strong._

If he didn't feel quite so miserable, he suspected that firm grip to the side of his neck would have been extremely arousing.

"And this will hurt more," Fenris promised. He had gotten out the suture kit, and now both his hands were on one side of Carver's face, pushing his head down at an angle. For a strange moment, as the latex glove pressed against the hot, swollen cartilage of Carver's ear, it reminded him of getting his ear pierced when he'd been a teen. Only instead of a piercing gun, Fenris stapled the sutures into place. _One. Two. **Three.** Dear god, had his ear been torn in half?_

Each suture tore into puffy flesh and stabbed through him with pain nothing comparable to a simple piercing. By the third, he could feel something hot course down his face, and tried to lift his hands to quickly brush it away. But his hands were still covered in the elf boy's blood and all it took was a glimpse of red for Carver, nauseated, to lower them back to his lap.

Fenris disinfected Carver's ear again, and more tears spilled. Hot. Humiliating. He sat as still as possible and made sure not to make a sound as if that could somehow make up for it. Hide it.

But as Fenris leaned in to apply bandages to the sutured wound, his jade green eyes flickered over Carver's wet face and... they darkened. Fenris' breath caught, and Carver felt a moment of profound confusion as the elf froze, his gaze intense and searching, for a stretch of several seconds. Then Fenris snapped his focus directly and pointedly back to Carver's ear, and did not look directly at his face after he had finished, even when he asked Carver to test his motor function on his injured shoulder.

"Just bruising," he diagnosed afterward, roughly. And then he reached into his suit's inner pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and closed it into Carver's hand. The blood left a grotesque hand print in the silk, but enough of it was clean that Carver was able to quickly wipe off his face. Then he got up carefully, checking himself for his head spinning and nausea, and washed his hands as thoroughly as he could.

"That boy," he said, and his voice sounded off to him. Not just hoarse, but hollow.

"He will live," Fenris promised. Fenris' voice also sounded strange. Strained.

Carver glanced down at the handkerchief and winced at the state of it. No one was getting all that blood out of the delicate cotton. Some of it had even stained the threads of a single carnation embroidered, white on white, in the corner.

"Good," Carver said. Fuck, this was awkward. He dried his hands, aware that there was still some caked blood around the fingernails he hadn't gotten and that his cuffs were wet and sticky. Taking off his shirt didn't seem to be the best idea, however, in an abandoned garage full of the aftermath of violence. He rolled them up to his elbows, washed his hands again, then turned back around to face Fenris.

"What next, boss?" he said.

He seemed to have caught Fenris in the same sort of reverie as earlier, when he'd been smoking in the alley. The elf was still, eyes distant, and Carver could detail the absolutely ruined suit, the spray of blood on his cheek and hair, and for one strange and terrifying moment a look in those fathomless eyes that was not furious, not brittle, but lost,- before anger and resolve smoothed back over it like a drawn curtain.

"Three of my operatives are unaccounted for," Fenris replied. "With the scale of tonight's operation, it is unlikely Remzy was working alone. However, if all four were dirty, the blood mages could have secured their victims without risk of interference. One of my lieutenants is among the missing. We will search the rest of the garage."

"And if we don't find them, or don't find them all?"

Fenris made a minute nod. "Then we will get you dinner and some rest."

That sounded nice, and Carver appreciated the thought of it. He hadn't eaten, and-- and then, after a moment's consideration, it suddenly sounded patronizing. _Get him dinner and rest?_ Like _Fenris_ didn't need it, but _Carver_ couldn't handle a busted ear and a rough run? He bristled. "I don't need to be _fucking coddled_ , Fenris-"

"And I don't need to be spoken to in that tone," was the cold reply. "Come along." Fenris slammed the door to the bathroom open.

Carver had a moment to regret his heated words when he realized he still felt shaky on his feet for the first half of the stair climb, though it settled into a low throb afterward and he was able to find his place again at Fenris' shoulder.

The tension between them stayed strong for a while, then melted away somehow, leaving only the labyrinth of concrete and metal, of turns and corridors, of parking levels and iron rooms. Early on, they found one of Fenris' three missing agents. She was dead. Shot and stuffed into the shadows behind a Ford that Fenris said was hers. Very probably a victim of the treacherous Remzy, though they couldn't be entirely sure.

But of the other two, there wasn't a single trace. Or, there were traces, but not traces that made any sense. As they moved, Fenris told Carver the names of the other two: Claris and Lovett. And they came across Claris' bracelet in the rust-stinking belly of what was nearly an oubliette, but no sign of the woman herself. And they found Lovett's gun just outside the back entrance to the garage. That... felt damning, but Fenris was silent. Perhaps seething, perhaps merely tired.

It had been hours. They were both sweaty, dirty and bloody. They were both bruised, Carver more so. So, when the car pulled up and Fenris tugged him inside, Carver didn't argue. In fact, he leaned against the cool glass of the window and let the ambient hum of the motor lull him into a fitful nap. He woke when the brake engaged and stirred muzzily. His head ached, but he thought he could pretty conclusively deny the idea of a concussion, since the feeling of waking up from one was very vivid in his memory, and that night he just felt worn out.

The car had pulled up in front of a multi-storeyed building with art deco design. The exterior was dingy and stained with age and smog, but the bones underneath were so beautiful that Carver felt his breath catch with annoyance at the years of neglect. Bright geometric windows were yellow with dirt. Elegant stone accents were choked in dust and discolored away from the unique bluish color of the marble. He felt avarice coil up in his stomach and his long-abandoned art degree poked at him to do something about this criminal waste.

And he was cold, because Fenris' side door was open.

Absently poking at the bandage on his ear, even though it hurt, or perhaps to remind himself it hurt to touch and didn't just throb and throb and throb, Carver slipped out of the car and walked down the sidewalk to where the elf had his abused cell pressed to his jaw.

"No, Hawke," Fenris was saying. "This is a courtesy call, nothing more. I will send Carver home precisely when he likes."

"That's Garrett?" he said, and it came out like a croak. "Let me talk to the fucker."

Fenris lifted a finger.

Carver ground his teeth. "Let _me talk_ to the _fucker_."

Fenris' eyes flashed, and the look he gave Carver made ice drop into his stomach, but he said into the phone receiver, "Here's Carver." His hand was steady as it extended the phone. Carver noticed as he took it that the phone was still covered in blood.

_Wow._

"Carver," Garrett's voice, deep and erudite, drifted from the phone before Carver even got it properly to his ear. "Are you alright? Fenris said you were wounded, but-"

"I'm fine," he snapped. Rather than press the phone against his wounded ear, he transferred it to his off hand and leaned against it. "You should have told me that he didn't know I was coming. He nearly left me at the fucking altar, you twat."

"What?"

"Not everyone likes it when you fix things for them without their permission, Garrett," Carver snarled. "Fenris was absolutely pissed. And then, it turns out his operation was full of traitors. So why the _fuck_ is he going to trust us, eh?"

"Carver, are you alright?"

"I'm peachy, Garrett. I've got three stitches in my ear, I nearly watched a twelve year old be tortured to death, and I'm _exhausted._ But I feel better than I have in years."

"Wh-what?" Garrett seemed unable to follow, as the hot, furious words came out of Carver fast and unrelenting, like fireworks.

"Because that twelve year old is okay, Garrett. I held his fucking blood in his body after Fenris killed the asshole who was torturing him. Fifteen escaped slaves are alright, barring bruises and trauma. I took down the fucking enemy tonight, Garrett."

Carver sucked in two deep breaths, then spoke over his older brother as he tried to speak again.

"I don't know what you meant by sending me to Fenris today. I don't know if it was a power play, or you thought it'd be good for us. I don't know. But I do know that I am going to stick with this, as long as Fenris will have me."

"Carver-"

"See you tomorrow, Garrett," he said, and hung up. He tossed the phone to Fenris, who had tilted his head and was studying Carver in a way that he was not certain was comfortable, even if the pressure of his gaze made parts of Carver light up, low and slow and eager.

Then Fenris walked up to him, a little closer than a non-intimate relationship would warrant. Carver stared down at him, his pulse picking up, and then settling into a full on race when a faint, wicked smirk curled Fenris' lips.

"I hope you're no longer offended by the idea of being fed," he said sarcastically, "because I'm quite hungry. Do you like curry?"

"Curry?" Carver replied, still a bit blankly. "Sure. Love it. But not too spicy, right?"

"Of course," Fenris said, that wicked smirk still curling the edge of his lips as he unlocked the door to the ancient building and opening it for them. "You're Fereldan."

The interior of the building was in the same neglected state as the outside, but it held so many brilliant gems that Carver was caught in a bundle of excitement rather than of upset. It had perhaps been a hotel, with an abandoned bar on the lower level, and the elevator Fenris led him to was absolutely gorgeous. He hadn't seen anything like it outside of a movie, and was silent as he enjoyed the smooth ride up to the sixteenth floor.

At the penthouse, Fenris opened the door and turned them toward the left of the two penthouse suites. Immediately, Carver's mood dimmed. The carpet was thick with dust, everything smelled rotten, and even once they slipped through the (unlocked) door of Fenris' suite, the interior was... disappointing.

There was almost no furniture, and what there was was old, dusty or broken. They passed the sitting area, which looked like a space from a haunted house movie, and Carver thought he detected traces of old blood spatter on the outdated wallpaper.

Past that, they went to the kitchen, which was marginally better. The stools weren't as dusty, the counters and appliances were old and dull but clean. Carver could smell the curry before they entered, and was startled, but then he saw the takeout bag on the counter. It crinkled enticingly as Fenris unknotted the handles and pulled out two kinds of curry, a huge tupperware of rice, naan and poppadoms in aluminum foil, salad, five sauces, and a small container of soup.

"What kind of poppadom?" he asked.

"Lamb," Fenris replied, and Carver moaned, unwrapping it to grab one and inhale it. It was absolutely delicious.

Fenris watched him with a faint smile and chuckled as he pulled out plates and bowls. He dished himself some curry and rice, a little salad and a little naan.

Carver handed him the second poppadom and Fenris firmly placed it on Carver's own plate.

"I'll make them for you next time," he said, and then froze, totally still, as if he were terrified of the words that had just escaped his lips.

Carver wiped his mouth and hurriedly replied, "Nah, you don't have to, this place you chose is-"

And Fenris lifted a hand. His shoulders lowered, he smiled faintly. "No. It's fine. I simply haven't cooked in a long time."

Carver glanced at him. He made his own plate using a little bit of everything and a lot of the red curry, and then moved around to slip on to a bar. He filled his fork, got his mouth full, then mumbled, "Were you a slave?" Cowardly, to muffle it that way, but he didn't think he could do it otherwise.

Fenris didn't stiffen at that. He moved around behind Carver and sat beside him. "You didn't know?" he said.

"Nope."

Fenris ate for a few moments in silence. Then he said, "Yes, I was a slave. These... markings? Those are the doing of my master. They are lyrium, branded beneath my skin."

Carver dropped his fork. "Lyrium?"

Fenris flushed, but took another bite of his meal.

Carver quickly grabbed the extra poppadom and swallowed a bite. "No, I just mean, that must be so painful. Lyrium is poison for anyone who isn't a mage. Even Templars, with their rituals, get fucked up so bad they can't go back."

"Yes," Fenris agreed softly. "It hurts."

And Carver didn't know what to do with the feelings that swelled up inside him at that. And Fenris was looking away, and stiff, and so he just ate, and didn't talk and didn't force questions on the elf. Every bite was good, and satisfying in a strange way, but every bite also made a strange lassitude press down from his shoulders.

"Fenris?" he asked, as he gazed down at a forkful of rice, sauce and vegetables that was very nearly going to clean his plate. "From what you said to Garrett... do... do you not mind if I spend the night?"

Fenris had not piled his plate as fully as Carver, but half of his food was still left. Still, the elf was pushing it around rather than eating it. He turned when Carver spoke, and nodded. "I would prefer it. Are you ready for bed?"

Carver nodded.

Fenris abandoned his plate and led Carver further into the suite, to the master bedroom where a large and elegant four poster was covered by simple sheets and a rumpled quilt. The bedding was so plain compared to the bed that Carver was at first taken aback, and then felt strangely and completely at home. He liked it. He liked the pale blue raw cotton sheets and he loved the quilt. It looked homemade, soft, and made with love.

Fenris gestured to the bed, and Carver shook his head. "No, I should... I should wash..."

"I only have a shower, and you need to keep your stitches dry." Fenris stepped forward, and Carver backed up. In that way, Fenris boxed Carver into the room until his thighs hit the mattress. Carver sat down, and Fenris walked into the en suite, grabbed a cup and filled it with water, and put it on the table.

It was such a gentle, caring gesture that it made Carver's throat ache.

"Could you..." he said, and then swallowed and tried again. "Could you help me with my shirt? My shoulder isn't really..."

"Of course," Fenris said in his deep, rough voice. He stepped forward, and crowded into Carver, and Carver's cock twitched. Then Fenris' elegant, beautiful fingers unbuttoned Carver's shirt and pulled it away from his chest. It pulled from his wrist, and then Fenris went into the en suite, returned with a soaped washcloth, and started to wash Carver's hand.

The feel of the hot soft towel against his fingers, curling around each one, was impossibly erotic. Fenris washed away the fine traces of blood spread from Carver's cuffs, then turned the wash cloth over and rubbed it gently over Carver's arm. Hot and soft, it smoothed over his arms and then his chest.

It felt a little like being bathed by his mother as a small child, but also at the same time it felt incredibly different. It felt warm, and sensuous, and a little frightening, because the man who worked that washcloth over his sweaty skin was not the slightest bit motherly.

Fenris opened his pants, and Carver clapped both hands over himself because he knew he was more than half erect. But Fenris ignored him, tugging his bloodstained pants off and then cleaning the bits of stains that wore through. He literally lifted Carver's legs and pushed him on to the bed, then pulled the quilt over him.

Fenris' hand was so strong Carver could feel it as he smoothed the quilt. And he couldn't move as the elf bent, almost as if he would kiss Carver on the forehead.

He stopped short of it. Straightened.

Carver blinked. _I want you,_ he meant to say. _It's not too much. Do whatever you want to me._ But they'd only met that day, and even if Carver was in Fenris' bed, he knew the elf wouldn't be joining him. "Thank you," he said instead, and let the desire inside him focus on the soft feel of freshly washed skin sensitive against Fenris' sheets, the quilt a cocoon around him which smelled of roses and anise as he fell to a sleep his aching body craved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carver is falling pretty fast, and Fenris apparently has a minor thing for tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for fear kink and for Fenris ripping a guy's voicebox out.


End file.
